Hello Contradiction
by M i s s. CANDYcancer
Summary: I was never one to regret many things. [oneshot Gazcentric]


I was never one to regret things.

"I don't regret the things I have done, but those I did not do."

It was a very real statement. Very true in the sense of the emotion, feeling, state of mind.

Whatever regret was.

It's been Thirteen years since I've looked. **Really** looked at my self.

Thirteen short years.

But it's not like I have many memories of those years. I was pretty sick during most of them. I had Graves Disease and a hyper active thyroid. It's nothing severe, but nothing fun.

Apparently I had the 'disorder' since I was twelve, but it was only during the past few years I was diagnosed.

But I guess finding out why I've been a bitch my whole life isn't too bad.

Maybe I'm just one of those lucky ones who can find an excuse. Having a Hyper Active Thyroid fucks with everything. It speeds up your heart beat. Gives you, what I like to call, "The shakes." I lost too much weight. My hair was always falling out. And my body seemed to over heat. A lot.

Oh. And Graves Disease. Well it comes with having a Thyroid disorder. I'm not even totally sure what it is. All I know is that if you have it for many, many years, your eyeballs start protruding from your eye sockets.

Thankfully I was diagnosed before that could happen, but you know. Whatever.

Long story short, I had my thyroid removed and it was like magic. I was a nice person.

I know. Apocalyptic right?

The downside was, The Graves Disease had effected my memory. And I could only recall certain flashbacks of memories.

But the rest was a blank.

I guess that's why I don't regret many things. I can't remember much of my youth.

Regret.

So many people have so many things they regret.

And I've spent the past thirteen years trying to figure out what I regret.

Now, Twenty-six years old.

And I still can't find one thing I regret.

I study my nude form in the mirror.

I had bleached my hair. The cut was still short. But now, messy, and choppy. In a splurge of faux 'individuality' I colored half of my bangs black.

I know. "How cool, Gaz."

I guess I just wanted a different look.

I didn't want to be sick meth-head looking Gaz.

I don't know who I want to be.

When I was younger, I do remember I wanted a bazillion piercings. But with age comes maturity.

I only had one. One Monroe piercing.

My eyebrows, now shaved off. Drawn on.

And my perfect. Perfect body.

Maybe not to everyone.

But it's perfect to me.

I placed my hands on my breasts.

What do I regret?

I had filled out an application. I wanted to be a Suicide Girl when I was nineteen. I guess taking out my thyroid changed a lot about me. Or maybe the art of being a Pin-Up girl intrigued me.

But as soon as I left Suicide Girls my photos were sold to cheap porn sites.

I know this because Dib called me one day wanting to know why my sets were on a cheap "HOT GOTHIC SLUTS" porn site.

I don't know how my brother found the pictures. Why he was on the site. Or how he was even aware of my career as a Suicide Girl, but there was nothing I could do about it. All rights to my sets belonged to Suicide Girls.

Did I regret becoming a Pin-up girl and having my photos posted on degrading cheap porn sites?

No.

When I was Twenty-one I received a call from Zim. I wasn't aware of how he found my number. But I guess it wasn't a bad thing.

Though I couldn't remember a lot that happened between Zim, my brother, and me, he was still familiar.

And familiar was all I wanted.

He asked me how I had been. I asked him why he called.

All he said was "It doesn't matter why I called, Gaz-human. All that matters is that I did call."

It was such a simple answer. And it made so much sense.

I never really remembered him calling me Gaz-human.

But it was still familiar.

And that's all I wanted.

Our conversation lasted a good ten minutes before he eventually asked me if I wanted to 'do something sometime'.

I told him I couldn't.

Even though, I really could have.

Even though I really wanted to.

I didn't.

Somethings were just too familiar.

Do I regret that?

No.

When I went to high school, one of the few things I remember were lips and hands.

I had been with him for four years.

Only to find out he had been cheating on me the whole time. Various girls. Names and details weren't important.

Did I regret being with him?

Did I regret wasting four years of my life with him?

Did I regret it?

No.

My palms ran over my breasts and down to my stomach.

When I was sixteen I made a mistake. Me and Zim were friends. I'm not sure how. I'm not sure why. Most of it is a gap.

But long story short, friendship turned to passion, turned to sex. I guess maybe that's why I never really cared that he cheated on me. I cheated on him with Zim anyway.

But, apparently, Irkens do have sexual organs. They're just unnecessary.

I guess there were no feelings.

But there was sex.

And with passionate-heat-of-the-moment-teenage sex comes no protection.

And with unprotected sex comes babies.

But humans and aliens don't mix.

I, unfortunately, found out three weeks later I was pregnant with a hybrid child.

I cant remember how Zim reacted. Or even if he did react. Or even if I told him.

Most of it is gap. a blank spot in my mind.

But I do remember the pain. The horrible, burning sensation in my abdomen as the unborn hybrid baby was removed from my body. The hot tears biting behind my eyelids. I'm not sure if it was from the seering pain in my lower body, or just from the pain of knowing. I. Killed. Life.

But there's no telling what could have happened to a hybrid child. Even if it would've survived. Or if I would have survive during labor.

But it still hurt.

And the unsafe clinic left me unable to have children.

And I should.

But I don't.

I don't regret it. At all.

My hands leave my stomach and trace down to my thighs.

Thick, white scars seem to bulge from my skin. I count.

Thirteen scars.

I pull my hands away from my naked legs and stare at fore-arms.

I try to count. But it seems impossible.

Countless tiny white dashes litter my forearm.

Self-Injury. Fashion-statement for some. Comfort for others. Or maybe just a sick fascination with blood.

When I was thirteen years old. A very rocky age. For anyone. My friends all decided they would cut themselves.

Though I would never admit it then, I just did it for the attention at the beginning. Everyone else was doing it. Who could bleed the most? Who could cause the most drama.

But slowly It turned into more than that.

There was no reason for it. There was no tragedy. There was no sad, sad story.

There was just a habit. A way to deal with teen angst, PMS, and a bleeding vagina. Blood, a razor, and scabs.

One year later Dib found out.

I don't remember what happened. I don't remember much of what was said. But I do remember his brown eyes studying me through thick glasses.

"Those scars are going to be there forever, Gaz. You're going to regret doing that."

I don't remember a lot of things that happened during those thirteen years in my life. Most of it is just one big memory gap.

But I never said that was a bad thing.

I stare at the ugly white bulges on my legs and arms.

But there's something about a scar that brings everything back.

Though my personality had changed. Though my life had changed. Though my clothes had changed. My hair. My looks.

Those scars haven't changed a bit.

They've stayed the same.

I run my thumb along a random scar on my upper thigh.

I never really notice them anymore. They seem to just be a part of me. Like my skin was always like this.

Or at least, until now.

Regret...

I was never one to regret many things.

I was never one to remember much either.

I was never one to really care.

Scars seem to litter my body. They appear more vivid than ever before. Each a memory I never wanted.

Regret is such a funny emotion. One I never thought I would have.

I run my hands over my thighs.

Three words escape my lips.

"Dib was right."

--

A/N: And I was never one to think I would actually post this.

Wow. Okay, yeah. Back from the dead you guys! Kind of. I guess you never really can grow out of fanfiction. Not a bad thing, but not a good thing either. I don't think. So yes. This, came out of nowhere. As much as I hate fanfictions now where they are all like "OMG CUTT3Rzz R SOOO C00L!" and as aware I am of the fact I used to be like that. But most thirteen year olds are obsessed with themselves and their attention seeking. Anyway. I hope you all aren't too mad at me. This wasn't intended as a "GAZ IS SO DEPRESSED!111one!" It was more of a Gaz looking back on how stupid she used to be. And sorry the ending was so weak, I was half out of it when I wrote this if you catch my drift. Mmkay. I said my peace. lovelovelove.


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